


In the embers

by spiderboyneedsahug



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Hurt Peter Parker, Introspection, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, have this mess lol, i'm. tired and bored so yeah, no beta we die like men, shameless self discovery, this is literally me overhauling my writing style a little put up with me, this is more for my character development than anyone else
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2019-08-17 17:33:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16520891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiderboyneedsahug/pseuds/spiderboyneedsahug
Summary: The world is so hard to process sometimes. Who is he? Who is Spider-Man? Is there a difference?He can never tell them apart, but he always knows they aren't the same.Maybe.





	In the embers

**Author's Note:**

> i decided, hey, why not completely fuck with my writing style to add a new flair bc why not and this is what happened

He’s cold.

 

He’s cold, but he’s warm. He aches.

 

There’s a vacuum in his lungs, filling them up with nothing and taking away his ability to breathe, filling him up with ice and dread and he’s cracking and dying inside, but he can’t melt the ice. If the ice melts… if he melts…

 

Sometimes, when the environment is pressing enough, when it’s too difficult to keep on, ice turns straight to water vapour, and unless it’s contained, it’s lost. It becomes scattered. The vapour disintegrates into the darkness, and it doesn’t come back. That’s where he’s at now, the tipping point. The small, infinitesimal point between living and dying, between being lost and being found. 

 

He hits the ground hard, body heavier under the weight of the world. Sometimes, he thinks he might be Atlas, destined to carry a burden too much for anyone else, and suffering constantly for it. He stands, defiant and tall as possible, the world swooping around like hurdles, trying to tear him off his feet. The fires stab into him, knives of anger and pain and loss. The worst knives are understanding. He understands why the man is so sharp and cruel and unforgiving. 

 

Family makes people different. It takes who they are, and when they’re ripped away the person becomes shards of glass, a mockery of who they were. He remembers being like that. He remembers a time where his body, his shell was cold but his core was burning brightly, too brightly to keep on, too harsh to sustain because he just burned everyone around him.

 

Then he was left, smouldering ashes in a cold, empty world. Without something to fan these embers, he’ll burn out and be snuffed out forever. No more family, no more life, no more nothing. Ashes and soot, lost to the wind. If he can’t pull his mind back from the splitting, and pull himself back into a whole instead of shards, then he’ll fall apart and lose it all.

 

The world tastes of salt and metal, harsh and unforgiving, painful and bitter. 

 

He pulls his fragments back into himself; tries to establish what he would have done on any other day. But it’s not a normal day. He’s- who is he, really? What does he stand for, aside from garish colours and a specific skill set that nobody else has? Is he Peter Parker, or is he Spider-Man? He’s been pulled too thin, both personalities at their breaking point. Teetering on a knife’s edge. He doesn’t have much to work with, nor does he have much time — he’s fracturing and splitting apart under the stress, another strand falling away under every hit he has to dodge.

 

He stares upwards at the Vulture, sparks flying from the wingsuit. Maybe he’s splitting apart too, being pulled apart for not holding on tight enough.

 

And it’s only in the face of the explosion, of Toomes’ fall from victory, of his own mortality, that he sees what he can do to piece himself back together.

 

Spider-Man. Him. They’re not different. They’re the same. He’s been resisting and fighting against what he is, what he can do, who he could be ever since the bite. He’s been struggling with who he could be. He’s been oppressing half of himself to keep who he was, and it’s exhausting. He’s got May and Ned as cement to pull his fragments back together, and even if he has to change to survive, he’s got to put himself back together so he can get back to them.

 

The world becomes less abstract. Fires roar in the beach and in his mind, growing alongside his determination. Peter Parker wouldn’t let Toomes die. Spider-Man wouldn’t let Toomes die. He won’t let Toomes die.

 

It’s not the weight of the world on his shoulders. He just can’t let anyone else die.

 

He runs into the flames as his resolve strengthens. He’s too close, and the anger-flames scorch him, but he can’t let that affect him. He saves people. That’s his thing, it’s who he is. He won’t turn away from that.

 

The world smells of smoke but it feels like crackling fires and blisteringly hot metals. And Peter’s never felt more whole.

 

So he saves Toomes. The man weighs nothing in his grip, even as he makes sure to not hurt him. There’s less exhaustion in him, a thrumming energy that he knows will die out as soon as he’s safe, but he can’t help but feel that something has changed.

 

He stumbles. He’s hurt, pretty bad. He can’t stop shaking.

 

The dark is all-consuming and ravenous against the orange fires, desperately trying to escape the approaching darkness in the ways that fires do. Peter just watches them wriggle and shift, dying orange flames streaking red across the sands — maybe that’s blood, his blood, he can’t remember anymore.

 

He watches people arrive on the beach, looking around cautiously for whoever stopped the madman. Toomes is still unconscious. Peter wishes he was.

 

He’s still burning, even though he’s out of the flames. The world lilts like earlier, but he can’t move.

 

Everything tastes like metal and feels like grit.

 

Peter coughs into his hand to muffle the sound (Happy can’t come looking for him). He looks at his glove. It’s the same red as before, but tinged with a shade as crimson as the flames on the sands, and for how his insides are burning, it might just be.

 

He slumps over. The wood scratches his cheek. It’s like a gentle hand, guiding him to safety. He relaxes in increments, letting the cool tendrils of rest finally lay their claim on him. The burning is fading now, just background noise like everything else. The cold has crept back in, encasing him in the same vacuum.

 

Peter can’t breathe anymore. He finds he can’t make himself care about it. He’s forgetting basic things now, moving, blinking, breathing.

 

_ thump _

 

_ thump _

 

_ thump _

  
  


_ thump _

  
  
  
  


_ thump _

  
  
  


_ th-thump _

  
  
  


“Come home, Peter.”

  
  
  
  


_ ben _

  
  


\----

 

_ beep. _

 

_ beep. _

 

_ beep. _

 

_ beep. _

 

_ beep. _

 

_ beep. _

 

_ Th-thump. Th-thump. Th-thump. _

  
  


Oh.

 

He’s alive.

 

He’s warm, and he can feel a hand in his own. He’s tingly. 

 

He can’t quite hear yet, but he has a feeling they won’t let him go. It’ll come back, it always does. He just needs to wait for it.

 

The world smells like antiseptic and it feels like he’s safe.

 

He’s safe. 

 

He lets himself go.

 

(He’ll be fine.)

**Author's Note:**

> tell me how i did?? is this okay??


End file.
